Cinderella Screwed Me Over

Chapter Thirty-two

The days after my talk with Jake had gone horribly wrong weren’t pretty. I moped, watched hours of the most skuzzy, awful reality TV, and cursed all happy couples—real and fictional. Panicked I’d bump into him, I rushed in and out of my building like a paranoid lunatic. Having to go through that stress every day was why I had a rule about getting involved with people I couldn’t avoid. I’d outdone myself with Jake. I could avoid Blue, but I couldn’t really avoid where I lived.

Relief filled me at the end of the day when I was tucked into my condo with nowhere else to go. I’d poke at whatever I managed to make for dinner—usually a frozen microwave meal with more frost than food—and feel sorry for myself. It was ridiculous, considering Jake and I had only known each other a couple of months.

On Friday, I dug the Post-it with Porter’s number out of my purse and stuck it on my fridge. Every time I saw it I’d stare at it for a few seconds. Then I’d walk on.

Saturday afternoon—after a tube of uncooked cookie dough and a Lifetime movie—I broke down and called Porter.

“It’s about time,” he said when he answered. “So when are we going out?”

…

I’d tried to organize Stephanie’s bachelorette party, but she kind of took over, and it ended up being more structured than I’d planned on making it: drinks at Tryst, no cutesy bridal stuff, and no males anywhere close to her.

Laura, a girl from Steph’s work, tried to slip on a tiara-veil-thing as we followed the hostess to our table. “It’ll be so cute, and then everyone will know that you’re getting married.”

Steph shot me a look, and I knew I was supposed to take care of it. I took the veil and put it in my purse. “I’ll just set it aside so Stephanie can have it as a keepsake.”

The seven women in our party settled into a large booth in the back. Out of the seven, two weren’t married—Stephanie, the bride-to-be, and me. That, paired with the fact we were in an isolated area of Tryst, made this night more of a girls’ night out than a party.

I thought back to some of the crazy bachelorette parties I’d attended in my twenties. Compared to those, Stephanie’s was pathetic. Women told stories about their husbands; I heard stories about their kids. One about potty training was especially detailed and painful to sit through. All the women gushed about Anthony and what an amazing couple he and Stephanie made, while I started tossing back drinks. When the waiter came by, I asked for a sex on the beach and told him to keep them coming. The party got more interesting from there.

Once everyone worked up a buzz, they got chatty. And loud. I told stories about the horrible guys Steph used to date, and then she’d tell one about me. I heard about Stephanie’s first days at work, about the change they saw when she met Anthony, and how before something was missing, but now she glowed.

Like you need a guy to swoop in to not have something missing. And what are we? Fireflies? Seriously, who wants to glow?

I was completely happy for Steph, but seeing these women—the married-with-children crowd—only reiterated how much things were about to change. In a pinch, I could still count on my best friend. But there’d be commitments to Anthony, his family, the family they planned on starting right away. Sitting there, surrounded by six other women, a feeling of intense loneliness settled over me. Even Drew—the guy who was supposed to be as calloused as I was about love—was going to abandon me for it.

Just another reason love stinks.

My next drink showed up just in time to toast that sentiment.

Guys started swinging by on a regular basis, hoping to score with the drunk chicks. Laura was nice enough to point a finger at me when a tall guy clad in a leather jacket stopped by. “She’s the only one who’s single.”

I looked up at the guy.

The disappointment on his face was clear, which didn’t do much for my already fragile ego. He stood there, looking uncomfortable for a moment.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not interested either.”

He couldn’t get away fast enough.

A few minutes later, a guy tapped Steph on the shoulder. She rolled her head in his direction, then looked to me.

“She’s getting married,” I said. Words seemed thick and hard to get out. “This is her bachelorette party.”

“How about a last fling before you settle down?” he asked, grinning at her.

“Sorry, buddy. It’s a girl’s night, and she’s not interested in cheating on her fiancé.” I gave him the scoot signal, sweeping my hand through the air. “So get lost.”

He muttered something less than flattering under his breath before walking away.

I flung my arm around Stephanie’s shoulder. “I wonder what Jake’s doing. I mean, it’s Saturday night, so I’m sure he’s working, but I wonder…”

“Wonder what?” Steph slurred.

“If he misses me? Isn’t it stupid to miss him so much already? I feel all needy. This is why I don’t drink. I get sloppy and emotional and it’s hard to comp—to compartlize—” Words weren’t coming out right. I tried again. “To keep my feelings in check. Then I start making big mistakes. Like that night I met Allen.”

“Jake wasn’t a mistake, though.”

“I screwed it all up. I can’t even blame Cinderella this time.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I pushed him too far, he’s leaving, it’s done.” Even with the alcohol dulling my senses, I still felt the sharp pain in my heart.

The bartender brought another round of drinks and I considered them for a moment before waving them off. “I’m going to stop before I do something stupid.”

Steph waved them away as well. “I had fun, celebrated my last single weekend, and now all I want to do is go home to my guy.” She looked at me, a sloppy grin on her face. “Can you get me home to my guy?”

Of course getting her home was easier said than done. Stephanie had this weird fear of taxi drivers. If someone she knew was with her, she was fine. Leave her alone with the driver, and she went into panic mode. I’d ridden past my place just so she wouldn’t have to be alone. As we turned down her street, I called Anthony to come get her.

When she saw him outside her door, she erupted in uncontrollable laughter.

He pulled her out of the taxi and put his arm around her.

She poked at his cheek. “You’re amazing. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” He leaned over to see me, keeping Steph next to him. “You okay getting home alone?”

I knew he was being nice, so I bit back my thanks-for-rubbing-it-in comment. “I’m good.”

“And you can make it into your building? You’re not too—”

“Shh!” Steph glanced at the driver. “He’ll take advantage of her.” She got louder. “Keep your stun gun ready in case of trouble.”

I laughed. She was more wasted than I’d realized. My head still felt fuzzy, but functioning wasn’t a problem. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, Anthony. See you, Steph.”

She giggled and waved. Anthony turned and helped her into their house.

I gave the driver my address and sat back in the seat. Note to self: No more bachelorette parties. They’re just not as fun as they used to be.

A few minutes later, the cab pulled up to my building. Walking in a straight line took some effort, but I was able to make it inside my building and to the elevator. The doors opened with a bing and I stepped inside. My hand hovered over the five button, and then I moved it up and pushed the number twenty. All night I’d felt alone, and I was sick of it. There’s a reason why alcohol’s sometimes referred to as liquid courage.

“Whoa,” I said as the elevator lurched to a stop. I steadied myself, then stepped off the elevator into the empty hall. I got past the first door—only three more to go—then froze.

Oh my gosh, what am I doing? I’m going to show up drunk and desperate just so I don’t feel lonely tonight? That’s seriously pathetic.

I hurried back the way I’d come, the wall getting closer with each step. Stumbling, I made it back to the elevator. Pushing the button over and over, I prayed Jake wouldn’t be coming up or leaving or anything that would force me to see him. Liquid courage was the wrong word. It gave you courage to do what you usually had common sense not to.

The doors opened and I lunged inside. For the first time tonight, I felt lucky to be alone. I punched my floor and almost tipped over when the elevator started its descent.

Tomorrow, I’d go out with Porter. Then my life could finally get back to normal. Or what constituted as normal for an anti-love, I-don’t-need-anyone-but-myself person like me.